A Masterpiece of Revenge by J.J. Fiechter

thought again about this mysterious, recently surfaced Lorrain. Eventually the final pronouncement of its authenticity would be mine to give — or withhold.

4
    T he minute I returned home from the airport I discovered a fourth white envelope in my pile of mail. The postmark was Brussels.
    Instinctively, I ran out onto the sidewalk, believing I might see whomever had mailed it lurking there. When I got into the elevator with my luggage I half expected to find someone there. I felt watched.
    Once inside my apartment I double-bolted the door and pulled close the curtains. My heart was beating erratically.
    Three times I picked up the phone with the intention of calling the police. Three times I put the phone back in its cradle. Meanwhile the envelope remained as it was. I held it in my moist hands for fifteen minutes, then finally opened it.
    A photo of Jean-Louis at a picnic under a tree with friends.
    There was something else in the envelope. A yellowed newspaper clipping that read “Mysterious Death of Onassis’s Son.” Part of an article recounting the famous plane accident followed.
    My chest tightened in panic. The threat was real now. The photographs were but suggestions, intimations. The clipping was a direct threat.
    I felt as I had the morning after Sophie’s death — desperately alone, teetering on the brink of some gaping pit. My thoughts spun. I needed something to keep me from falling.
    Remain rational, I told myself. What would the police have done? Looked for fingerprints on the envelope or on the photograph.
    I found some pencil lead and ground it into a fine graphite dust, spread it across the back of the envelope, blew on it, then did the same thing with the photo and the clipping.
    The envelope revealed two or three muddy-looking fingerprints, which I knew must belong either to the concierge or to me. In any case, what would I have done had I found someone’s fingerprint? Gone to the police and asked them if it belonged to some criminal? The whole idea was absurd.
    I called a photographer. He told me that it was impossible to determine where a standard roll of Kodak film had been developed, unless there were a name or address on the back of the print. Of course there wasn’t. There was only a series of numbers.
    â€œThe date of manufacture and the date of development are usually fairly close together,” the photographer told me. “Film doesn’t keep very long. It loses its sensitivity to light.”
    I’d learned nothing. The person who’d photographed Jean-Louis had probably bought the film this year, and probably in the United States. The back of the photo read “This paper manufactured by Kodak.”
    I was thrown back into despair, into a realm of utter helplessness where thoughts ran riot. I’m told the best thing is to let it all wash over you, rather than trying to stare it down.
    There was nothing to do but wait. Batten down the hatches and point my prow into the wind. I would have to end up somewhere.
    Had I been the one in danger, this would have been easy. The press clipping proved that it was my son’s life that was being threatened. I was no Onassis, of course, though it was probably public knowledge that I was well off. That I would have enough cash to pay a ransom. I thought of famous cases of kidnapping. Some victims were released after payment. Most were killed. Plenty of kidnappings went unreported. Families quietly paid what was asked of them by mafioso types.
    Perhaps it wasn’t money that they were after. What does a blackmailer want besides money? A deed, a tide, a promise, a signature, a painting, a jewel, a secret formula, a manuscript? Anything was possible. I was dealing with a criminal and a sadist, someone who knew what was most precious to me in the world.
    That meant someone who knew me — a relative, a neighbor, a colleague, a friend. Someone nearby, watching me, playing with me, teasing me. Hating